Ticks and Leeches
by Nandelle
Summary: Draco had proven himself incapable of murder... ‘Avada Kedavra.’ He could say it now but the time for those words had passed. Post HBP, DracoHarry angst.


Author's Note: Just a short beginning to something I hope will continue. It will eventually end up being a Draco Harry pairing but that's some distance ahead. This was initially inspired by a Tool song, Ticks and Leeches, from their album Lateralus. For those of you who know the lyrics, I hope to make the correlation a little more clear in the chapters to follow. Hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I do not own any ticks or leeches, nor do I own Lord Voldy-thingy or any of the other characters through this. They all belong to J.K.R. and I love her very dearly for making them.

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Part One. Avada Kedavra, or I Hope This is What You Wanted.

Draco Malfoy had proven himself incapable of murder. He had so wanted to do it, he had been chanting the words of the Killing Curse inside his head so jovially before the time came to utter them aloud. He had so _wanted_ to murder, to prove himself. He, Draco, had been given this task above all others and he, Draco, had to complete it to show that he was worthy, even if his father was not, that he was capable, even though his mother was not. But he hadn't. Snape had done that for him. When the old man's face had looked at him from his slumped position against the battlements, he couldn't say it.

'Avada Kedevra.' It wasn't hard. He mumbled it now, under his breath. His father had done it countless times before, as had his mother, his aunt, his uncle, his master… A sharp pain that had no physical manifestation singed his insides as effectively as a heat-scarlet knife. His master. 'Avada Kedavra.' He could say it now but the time for those words had passed – simple words, really, pleasant to listen to when they were whispered, as they were now.

He had wanted to kill Albus Dumbledore. Really, he did. Another singe against his insides, this one carrying a twist of fury into his previously still countenance. He had not only _wanted_ to kill the old man, he _would _have if Snape – bleeding, greasy _Snape_ – had only waited a couple moments. Seconds, really. He could have done it but Snape had stolen the words from his mouth. 'Avada Kedavra.' The words came louder, this time, and he was on his feet. He was _not_ incapable. He had _so wanted_ to kill the old man! Why couldn't anyone understand that?

Hours ago, fear had been the motivator of his thoughts. He had failed in his task – because of fucking Snape, how he ever could have adored the grease-slick _half_-blood he didn't know – and his master was not pleased. Draco had seen what happened to those that the Dark Lord was displeased with. It wasn't an attractive condition and he knew better to think that his failure – not failure, _not! _– had gone unnoticed.

When he had returned from the grounds with Snape, he had allowed himself to be placed in a small room of a house that he did not recognize. He had paced the room a hundred-million times since then but his fear was gone. Now there was just the trembling indignation of _Snape_, the filthy fucking half-blood, stealing the glory that should have been his. He had wanted to kill the old man.

And yet… there was a small voice in the part of his mind that had not wanted to say those lovely, verdant words. This voice had been behind the fear when he first arrived and, he thought this rather bitterly, that voice had been the reason he had taken so long to try and kill the old man. He had so wanted to kill him, but part of him had not. Part of him stayed his hand and made his tongue incapable of speaking those words, those delicate, soothing, little green words. 'Avada Kedavra.'

Each time he said it, his voice regained a bit of its strength. This time, it was not a whisper. He still had his wand in his robes; Snape had not thought to take it from him. Snape was an idiot, he thought furiously, pacing again, Snape had taken his glory, his! And Snape had mocked him about it with that patronizing little look he had bestowed upon Draco before shutting him in the small, dust-filled room. And Snape had taken away the only – the _only _– chance he had of getting his father back, of protecting his mother…

He blinked. Gray eyes looked at the floor that was no longer moving beneath him, already tattooed with the frustrated path of his feet. Had he just thought…? The part of his mind that had not wanted to kill anyone, much less Albus Dumbledore, recalled the old man's words. 'I can help you, Draco.' He was lying. 'Draco… you are not a killer…' He was! He was a killer! Only, Snape had taken his chance. 'Avada Kedavra.' He knew who he would be killing, now…

Before he could lend his thoughts their eager desire to abuse Snape further, a wall of light, dull and muffled even in the dusty darkness, appeared in front of him. He looked up to the door. Someone stood there, masked and hooded, beckoning with a glare. Draco followed him out of the room without speaking, focusing on clearing his mind, focusing on burying everything he had just thought. 'I can help you, Draco.'

The sight of the Dark Lord returned Draco to his fear. He had clear view of him, an elegant cloak draped over a thin, lithe, frame, crimson, jet-slit eyes slightly narrowed, the nostrils of a flat, snake-like nose flaring subtly. Ignoring the small circle of Death Eaters that surrounded them, Draco lowered his head, waiting for the inevitable cold, high voice to wash over him.

'I had thought that, given your father's… disappointment,' the words finally came and Draco looked up into those scarlet, boiling eyes, his mind blank. 'That you, perhaps, would have realized the importance of the task I assigned to you.'

Draco took the brief pause as an indication to speak, 'I did realize, my Lord.' His words sounded mumbled and weak compared to the ice, the almost tangible shards of frost, of the Dark Lord's voice.

'Then why, may I ask… did you fail me?'

He blinked. He knew at once that this was not the thing to do. The Dark Lord had risen his wand, cried, '_Crucio_!' in that horrible, high voice, and Draco was on his knees, his jaw clenched tight to muffle his yells.

When the pain subsided, he remained on his knees, looking up at the Dark Lord, 'I hesitated, my Lord.' He took a steadying breath, fighting against the impulse to look into the masks of the other Death Eaters, searching for Snape. 'I would have been able to, had Snape only waited.'

The Dark Lord considered this before speaking again, 'You are lucky, Draco,' and he winced inwardly at the sound of his name at the end of a forked tongue, 'Had Snape not been there, the task may not have been completed and you would face much, much harsher consequences.'

Before Draco could reply, could speak in his defense, the Cruciatus Curse was upon him again and he was writhing, struggling to keep his screams inside, trying to throw the pain off of him with thrashing. He was on the floor when the wand was lifted and he pushed himself immediately back to his knees. He knew he wouldn't say what had been running so heatedly through his head while he was trapped in that small room, 'Yes, my Lord.'

'Do you feel you deserve this punishment?'

Draco answered before the small voice that had not wanted to say those lovely, jaded words could make his tongue falter, 'I do, my Lord.'

A smile, cold and humorless as the voice that it contained, lit the Dark Lord's features, 'Good, good… But you still feel you have been wronged, slighted, perhaps.' Draco's face betrayed the truth of the words, 'Is that not so, Draco?'

Draco shook his white-blonde head, knowing that whatever answer he gave, there was only one reply the Dark Lord would give…

'_Crucio!_' And Draco was back on the ground, flattening himself against the floor, pressing his fingers into the chill, solid floorboards, screaming and flailing…

This time he could feel his form trembling, his throat aching with his cries of pain, as he pushed himself back into a kneel. 'Tell me, Draco,' he began, something harder in his voice that Draco recognized as amusement, 'Would you like another chance to prove yourself?'

He looked back into the snake-like features with his eyes widening slightly, his frame quaking now with the pride, the utter, overwhelming sense of _pride_ that filled him… his father had scarcely inspired such an emotion within Draco. 'Yes, my Lord, more than anything.'

The Dark Lord lowered his wand from Draco's kneeling form, considering him with a whole mixture of emotions that did not exist beyond those scarlet, burning eyes. 'I'm afraid that this task may prove to be even more hopeless for you than the last and another failure will _not _be tolerated. Knowing that,' he gestured for Draco to stand, 'Are you willing to accept it?'

Nodding a little more eagerly than he had meant to, Draco got to his feet so swiftly that his vision swam and the image of the Dark Lord was temporarily blanketed by a thousand shimmering specks, spiraling through the air.

'Very well. I want you to bring me Harry Potter.'

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A fairly brief start. Hopefully it'll continue to develop semi-coherently... If you liked this, hated it, or would like to see more, please review. 


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